


miles to go before we sleep

by siehn



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, non linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siehn/pseuds/siehn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A life told in snapshots, interwoven through time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	miles to go before we sleep

**Author's Note:**

> For ciaimpala, just because. <3
> 
> (This may get more added later, but for now I'm calling it completed.)

**22**  
  
You see it before it happens, a brief flash to a bleak future that you can't prevent, and then the side of the train car is gaping open. He's holding onto the side, and you're both reaching, reaching, but you can never reach far enough; the screams echo through the mountains, and you can't tell who's is who's, but you've never been all that good at separation anyway.   
  
There's a long moment where you cling to the side of that train car and consider letting go. You want to so badly, don't want to deal with the well of grief springing up inside, but you don't. You can hear him in the back of your mind, loud and bright and alive saying, "Don't you _dare_ , Stevie." You don't.   
  
Somehow, you manage to stitch yourself back together, rough patches over raw and bleeding wounds that gape open when you least suspect it. You do your duty, and try to wash away your sins but the guilt remains. If only you had been able to reach further; if only you had let go, as well.   
  
The alcohol still burns when it goes down, but it does nothing to numb the pain. You settle for a suicidal plan, instead because you want to watch the bastards burn.   
  
**1**  
  
Your lip is split and bleeding, and it's getting harder to breathe, but you know you can't run. Bullies only get stronger if you run from them, and you push yourself back to your feet, ignoring the way they jeer when you stumble.  
  
"I can do this all day," you tell them, fists raised, and they look at you like you're off in the head. It doesn't stop them from sending you crashing into the line of tin garbage cans across the alley, and you spit blood from your mouth, flick a loose tooth with your tongue. You don't remember what this was about, something to do with little Johnny, younger than all of you, and freshly orphaned. Either way, you aren't going to let them get away with it.   
  
Except they do; they just keep knocking you around until you can barely stand, have to hold one hand steady against the alley wall. They're laughing, joking around with each other; one of them goes to shove you again, except he doesn't.   
  
"Hey, why don't you pick on someone your own size?" His voice is rough, and low, and you stare up as he stands over you with his fists raised and a reckless grin. "Get outta here, 'an don't let me catch you messin' with him again," you hear him growl, shoving one of the boys into the others before they turn to go, muttering to themselves.   
  
And then he turns that bright, reckless grin on you, and you don't know what to do. It's like you're drowning in the air, and you hold onto him when he pulls you up straight and brushes the garbage and dirt from your shoulders before sticking a hand out, one brow raised. "James Barnes, but you can call me Bucky," he tells you, and you stare at him, dumbfounded.   
  
"Steve Rogers," you say automatically, taking his hand because you don't have anything else to do. "I almost had 'em," you add, because you need to, no matter how much it's not true. He just grins at you and shakes his head.   
  
"I know you did," he nods, throws a companionable arm over your shoulders, and tugs you along. "C'mon, Stevie; the world's awaitin'," he tells you, and you don't know why he's chosen you, but you don't say no.   
  
You never do.  
  
 **116**  
  
Later, you think some part of you knew that he'd catch it; it's why you flung the shield so hard without hesitation. The truth is that you couldn't believe it was really him, didn't believe it until he whirled around the minute you threw the shield, and caught it. A mirror; the two of you have always been mirror images of each other, separate but not, and you still are.   
  
He stands there with your shield, with the symbol, grasped tight in a metal fist and you can't do anything but stare. The two of you are locked in some kind of contest, motionless but for breathing and the look in his eyes is shattering every patched together piece of you until that stitched up wound breaks its ties and gapes open again, and you can't breathe. It's like an asthma attack, panic stealing your breath except he's not there to hold a hand to your chest, and " _breathe with me, Stevie._ "   
  
"Bucky?" You know better; despite what everyone seems to think, you aren't stupid. There's no recognition in those eyes, no reckless grin hidden beneath that mask, and you can feel the tears prickling at the edge of your vision, and you're back on the edge of that train car again, reaching and reaching and never grasping.   
  
Some part of you still wants to let go.   
  
"Who the hell is Bucky," he asks, dropping the shield at his feet like it means nothing, and it doesn't; it _doesn't_. He fades away into the night, takes the battered, broken pieces of your heart with him, but that's okay because they're his anyway.   
  
Tasha finds you later, drowning in the air on your knees where he stood and tore you open.   
  
"I'm so sorry," she tells you, but you can't hear her over the sound of mingling screams echoing out through every part of you. They're always sorry; it doesn't mean anything.

  
**9**  
  
You wake up sweating, and freezing at the same time, wheezing violently because you don’t have the strength to cough. There’s a crashing sound from the kitchen, and a round of swearing that’s too familiar to be anyone other than Bucky. There’s a chair by the bed the way there always is when you’re body gets the better of you, and you’re never sure whether to be grateful, or ashamed that he feels the need to watch over you at night. Part of you likes it, can’t help the warm feeling that crops up at the thought of Bucky caring enough to hold vigil at your side. The other part hates it because you don’t like feeling weak; you like looking weak even less.   
  
“Stevie?” he says from the doorway, shirtsleeves rolled up, and a bowl of water in his hands. It’s steaming, and you realize he must have heated up on the old stove that barely works, hence the cursing. There’s relief on his face, in his voice, and the way his shoulders droop just a little from the tense line they’d been holding. You wonder if it was really that bad this time, if it still is, considering the clawing cold thing in your chest is still there. He walks over to set the bowl down beside the mattress, easing himself into the chair, and reaching a hand out to press against your forehead. “The doc didn’t know if you were gonna wake up today, or not,” he admits, looking a little lost at the idea, for a moment. “He says it’s pneumonia, that I should try to keep you warm,” he adds, wringing out an old rag from the water, and putting it over your forehead, wiping away the sweat.   
  
It must have cost nearly all of their savings for a doctor, and you open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head. “Don’t even try it, Rogers; you passed out on me, what the hell else was I gonna do?” You get a baleful look for that, though it fades quickly, and he offers you a small smile instead. “You could’a said you weren’t feelin’ well, pal.” 

“Wanted to see the lights,” you protest, shivering a little. You hate being sick, and your voice is already hoarse from the coughing you don’t remember doing. “It’s no big deal, Buck.”   
  
He scoffs at that, disbelief written over every inch of him, despite the gentle way he brushes your hair off of your forehead. “You could’a died, Steve; I’d say that’s a pretty big deal. You ain’t allowed to go where I can’t, pal, thought you knew that.” It’s only because you know him so well that you can read the fear written in the lines of his face, the dark circles under his eyes. Sometimes you forget that you aren’t the only one with only one other person in the world; you’re all he’s got, too. 

“M’not goin’ anywhere, Buck. Promise,” you tell him, though your words are lost somewhere in the wheezing coughing fit, and you double over at the way it claws against your ribs. Probably not very reassuring, you think, and turn miserable eyes his way. “Sorry for ruinin’ Christmas,” you offer miserably.   
  
“Shut up, punk,” he tells you, exasperated, before pushing himself to his feet. “Hey, shove over,” he says, pushing you until there’s barely enough room for another person on the mattress, and you blink muzzily at him, one eyebrow raised. He shrugs, looking vaguely defensive. “Doc said to keep you warm, right? S’what I’m doing.”   
  
You’re not entirely sure it’s good for your breathing when he tugs you back against him, though this is hardly the first time you’ve shared a bed for warmth. His palm fits over your chest, and you reach up to hold on to his wrist, eyes slipping closed as his breathing lulls you into a slow, sleepy state. 

“Merry Christmas, Stevie,” he whispers, and you lean your head back against him because he won’t care. 

“Merry Christmas, Buck.”   
  
**134**  
  
"Captain, it's not recommended.."   
  
You don't listen to them as you run past, headed straight for the room they've shoved him into like that's going to help. It makes you angry, but you ignore it because you can't help him with anger; instead, you shove the agent blocking your path out of the way, and head inside.   
  
You're dressed in a pair of sweatpants, and a ratty old shirt, and you hardly look the part of Captain America. That's okay though, because right now you aren't trying to be America's hero. You aren't trying to be anyone but Steve, Stevie; the best friend he needs when everything else is unstable. It's easy to ignore the warnings they give you, to ignore the fact his last, failed, mission was an attempt on your life; you don't care because it's Bucky, and you just aren't built to be afraid of him. He protected you for so long, and now it's your turn.   
  
You fall to your knees at his side, ignore the way he stares warily, like an injured predator, and clings to the knife in his hand. You ignore the way he flinches back, murmur his name low as you settle your hand on his chest, and it would be better skin to skin, but you'll take what you can get. You wait until he's looking at you, until you can catch his eyes and hold them, and you take a deep breath in, and out.   
  
"C'mon, Buck," you tell him, do your best to keep your voice level, though you know some of your desperation must be leaking out, the way he's staring at you. "Breathe with me, remember who you are." It's not the first time you've done this, though it's usually within the privacy of your apartment in the dead of night, where shadows hide the fear and confusion, the cracks that you mostly pretend are patched up. "It's me, Buck; it's Steve," and those words are too familiar, etched into your soul from when you found him alive on a metal table, and could taste your relief in the wonder in his eyes.   
  
"Steve? Stevie?" he questions, wide eyed, and his grip on the knife slackens enough that you can slide it from his hand. "I..." but you don't let him finish, just tug him in close, and wrap your arms around him until your breath matches, and his heartbeat is yours, and you can feel his tears rolling cleansing tracks onto your skin.   
  
"It's alright, Buck; I'm here."   
  
**121**  
  
"Do it," you tell him, staring hard as you drop the shield onto the pavement at your feet, hands raised in the classic 'unarmed' pose. He's still close enough that you can see past the dark kohl around his eyes to the deep, deep blue, and you think you could go happy this way, with him on the other side of the knife. It's only fitting, right; you couldn't reach enough to save him, and now his ghost has come back to finally pull you down into the darkness, too.   
  
It's almost a relief.  
  
"Well, what are you waiting for?" And you're almost yelling now, desperation lacing every word, and you shove him until he twists your arm painfully behind your back, and you let him. There's a knife at your throat, pressing in enough that you can feel the faintest trickle of blood, and his heart and yours beat in time to one another the way they always have. You let your eyes slip closed, and maybe you think _finally_ , because you're tired, and Bucky isn't Bucky anymore, and _what's the point_.   
  
Except you've never been able to run away, not really.   
  
You swallow hard, and open your eyes, and you don't know why you're still here, why he hasn't taken advantage of the position he has you in, and killed you. "Buck," you try, voice shaking in a way it hasn't in a while because you have a reputation to keep up. "Buck, it's me; it's Steve. I know you're in there somewhere; I know you're fighting." Bucky never stopped fighting; though he fought for you, most of the time.  
  
"Stop it," he orders, voice hoarse, and he lost the mask somewhere in the chaos. You've never been good at following orders though, and you ignore the knife at your throat in favor of shoving back against him until you can feel his warmth along your back, until your breathing in time with him. "I don't know who you think I am..."  
  
"I do," you tell him, quiet and firm; steel beneath your words. "You're James Buchanan Barnes," you pause, take a breath and find that place within yourself that Erskine first saw, "and you're my best friend." You have no idea what you're doing, and you're even less sure it's going to work, but they always told you were stubborn enough to beat the Devil at his own games. You're betting all your chips on that now, and it won't matter if you're wrong because you'll be dead.   
  
The hand holding the knife at your throat is the real one, made of flesh and bone and dust, and it starts shaking, tremors running along the fingers, up to the hand itself, and you can feel him behind you. It feels like you're both standing on the edge of an old railway in the mountains, snow falling all around you; he's falling, and reaching and crying out, but you can never catch him because it's too far. The nightmare is always the same, but this time you're awake, and you do what you should have done then: you leap after him, and follow him into the dark.   
  
"Steve?" The clatter of a knife as it hits the pavement, horror and disbelief in his voice.   
  
"Hey, jerk," shaky words issued from an equally shaky heart, and you take a breath for what feels like the first time in years. “I missed you.”   
  


**13**   
    _Bucky,_  
  
 _I guess you’re on the front line by now; probably have been for a while, huh? I’m sorry if you’ve sent letters, expectin’ a reply, but I ain’t in Brooklyn right now. Look, I know you wanted me to stay out of it, but you’re wrong ya know? I don’t got any right to do less than the men out there dying, just like my old man did. It’s just…My duty, y’know? And don’t say you don’t, because you signed up to fight. I’m not the only one thinkin’ he’s got somethin’ to prove, pal._  
  
 _I don’t know if you’ll get this before you find out, but at least try to think of it from my end, huh? It’s better this way, Buck; I’ll be better. The Doc, (Doc Erskine) says I won’t be sick anymore, that I’ll be able to fight without worrying I’m gonna end up in a hospital dying of pneumonia. I just want a chance, that’s all. Maybe now I won’t need you to come save me when I get into a scuffle; that’ll be novel._  
  
 _Look Buck, just try not to freak out, okay? I’ll see you on the front when this is over. And just…Be careful, you jerk._  
 _Your pal,_  
 _Steve_  
  
 **138**  
  
“Why do you keep doing this? Why are you still _here_?”   
  
It’s not the first time he’s asked you this, and you’ve been expecting the blow up for weeks. You look at him, stare across the distance of a few feet that sometimes feels like miles and years you can never get back. He’s watching you like he doesn’t understand you, like you’re some kind of puzzle he can’t figure out; it’s not an unfamiliar look. You don’t know the answers to those questions; not in any way he means, or way he wants. You’re here because it’s where you belong; you keep picking him up when he falls because it’s what you _do_. It’s what you’ve always done for each other, and you still remember cold nights when you could barely breathe, and his hand on your chest, warm and grounding.   
      
“Well?” He’s impatient, desperate and wild like a force of nature. 

“You, Buck,” you answer simply, shrugging. You know it’s not good enough, but it’s the only answer you have. It’s the only answer you’ve ever had to all questions but one, and even then he was part of it. You clear your throat, and drop your eyes briefly to the way his metal hand is clenched like he’s in pain before you look up and catch his eyes again. “It’s always been you.”   
  
“I’m not who you remember, Steve,” he tells you, but the anger is gone; there’s no bite to his words, no cruelty to be found. They’re just tired, exhausted like the line of his shoulders, and the dark circles under his eyes. He’s lived the lifetime you haven’t; he’s watched the world change. “I’ve done so many things,” he tries, but you shake your head.   
  
“I don’t care,” you tell him, truthfully. And you _don’t_ care; the Soviets brainwashed him, and that wasn’t his fault. You should have reached further, fell with him; those are your sins, and you’ll carry them forever, but you’ve never cared about the stains on Bucky’s soul. “You’re here,” you try, desperately trying to find the words to describe what it means to have him here. “Bucky, I’ve watched you fall forever; one hundred thousand different ways with the same outcome, and I couldn’t do a damned thing,” and you’re voice is shaking now, like your standing on a ledge, cold wind blowing around you. “All I care about is that you’re here now, and you’re _you_.” As much as he could be, but you don’t care about that, either.   
  
He’s watching you wide eyed now, and the distance between you seems a little less gaping, traversable, maybe. You take a step forwards without meaning to, heart stuck somewhere in your throat, and you don’t think you’ve been this honest with anyone since you woke up in the future.   
  
“I don’t know if I can be the man you want me to, Steve,” he tells you, eyes downcast like he’s _ashamed_ , and you can’t. You don’t consciously move forward, but you end up standing in front of him anyway, reaching out to hold on the way you haven’t been able to stop doing. He’s been through hell and back; he’s ragged and shattered, and still the best man you’ve ever known. He’s still the most important person in your life, and you’d still give up everything for him. 

“I don’t want you to be anyone but who you are, Buck,” you tell him, shrugging. The smile is probably crooked and weak, but you manage it anyway. “I know you’re different, I know you’ve been through things I can’t even begin to understand, and I’m not asking you to be who you were. I’m just asking you to be my best friend.” You swallow hard, want to force yourself to take a step back, except you can’t. There are arms wrapped around you instead, too tight except you’re a super soldier, and they’re just right instead. You hug him back, tight as you can, and squeeze your eyes shut because if this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. 

“You’re such a punk,” he tells you, hoarse. “I can’t believe they think you’re some kind of innocent poster boy; you fight dirtier than anyone I know.” It’s true, but then you learned it from the best. 

“I love you too, ya jerk.”   
  
**8**  
  
It’s your first Christmas on your own, no orphanage, no parents, and the apartment is sparse, and cold. Bucky’s been taking extra shifts at the docks, trying to get a little extra money, he tells you when you ask, but you’re not stupid. You can see the worry in his eyes when the coughing starts, when you can’t breathe at night. The feeling of his warm palm against your chest lingers in the morning, long after he’s vacated the chair by the single mattress, and you wonder if this is going to be your last Christmas, too. But you’re hardly one for giving up, and despite the way your chest hurts when you breathe, the way the cold seems to have clawed its way inside, and doesn’t plan on leaving, you take what work you can get. Mostly it’s art commissions, because you’re good at that, and there are always people willing to pay for it, even in these times.   
  
“C’mon, pal,” Bucky tells you on Christmas Eve, throwing his arm over your shoulder, and tugging you away from the shop window you’d been looking in. Those drawing pencils had been nice, though you’ll never be able to afford ‘em. 

“Where we goin’?” You have to ask because it’s Bucky, and if there’s one thing you’ve learned with him, it’s always to know ahead of time what you’re getting yourself into. “If you’ve gotten some dames again, I’m gonna pass, Buck. Nobody wants to dance with the guy who can barely breathe,” you tell him, sighing. It’s not even that you feel bad for yourself really, though you do; it’s just that it’s the truth learned from many, many failed attempts.   
  
Even you get tired of being rejected. 

“Nah, no dames, Stevie. Not tonight,” he grins at you, the same reckless grin you saw that first time, though it’s been tempered by the nights he’s stayed up at your bedside. “They’re lighting the tree tonight, out on the Square; figured we’d go see it, is all,” he offers, shrugs. “Unless you don’t feel up to it, I mean I know it’s cold out…,” 

“I’m good,” you interrupt him, offer a small, crooked smile of your own. “Seriously, Bucky, I’m fine. Let’s go watch ‘em light the tree; it’s the biggest one I’ve seen yet.” And it might not be the truth; you _aren’t_ feeling all that great, but the smile he sends your way is worth it, bright enough that you can bask in it for a while, anyway. Besides, the apartment is just as cold, and you gotta admit: you _did_ want to see them light the big tree up this year. 

It’s just as beautiful as you thought it’d be, or maybe that’s just the way the lights reflect over Bucky’s face, bathing him in colors and shadow; chiaroscuro brought to life.   
  
Either way, you’re glad you came, even if the cold clawing at your chest just tightens it’s grip, and you end up passing out on the way home.   
  
**110**  
  
The world is different, and you don’t mean the new technology, or the way things have moved forward. Progress is probably the only constant, but _people_ have changed. The things you sacrificed your life for, the things Bucky _died_ for, you aren’t sure what they are anymore. But that’s nothing new, because you aren’t even sure who _you_ are, anymore. They call you Cap, or Captain; Capsicle, even, but no one thinks to call you by your _name_. No one seems to remember there’s a man underneath the uniform, and you were only twenty three when you sent the plane down into the ice.   
  
You were only twenty three when you watched your best friend die, but it wasn’t so young, back then.   
  
Besides, you got what you wished for: you were a soldier in the war, and you knew you weren’t coming back anyway, after Bucky. Which of course, everything always seems to loop back to; no one here really knows Steve, knows you on the level that Bucky did, and you aren’t sure you want anyone to. It’s not the same, facing this strange, new place without him there to tell you it’ll be alright, and you almost laugh at the irony of those carefree words he said to you, once.   
  
“The future ain’t what we thought it’d be, Buck,” you tell him, fingers tracing over that familiar smirk in the picture sitting on your table. “Sure ain’t the same without you, here,” you can’t help but huff a little at the idea, something almost a laugh, but nowhere near it, either. You can imagine what it’d be like, if Bucky were here, too; he’d love it, this new fast paced world. He was always more suited to progress than you were, but then the two of you always followed each other, anyway.   
  
Sometimes you’re still convinced you should have followed him down into that snowy valley, and let the world deal with it’s own problems. But that’s not you, not who you are, and Bucky would have knocked you senseless for even thinking it. He never did let you get away with feeling sorry for yourself. You close your eyes on a heavy breath, ignore the tightness in your chest because it’s just in your head, and there’s nothing you can do about it, anyway. Bucky’s gone, and it’s been seventy years but it feels like four months: everything is still raw and gaping, and you have no idea how to pick yourself up, and go on. You will, because you have to, but you don’t know how. 

“God, Buck,” he mutter, head in your hands. “What the Hell am I doing?”   
  


**129**  
  
You’re on the side of a train car, and the cold is biting into your hands while tears freeze on your cheeks. The screams have died out, and there’s nothing to ever suggest you just lost the most important person in your life, except the bloody, gaping wound splitting you apart. No one can see that, though; it’s just for you. You want to let go, but you don’t; you want to open your mouth and scream and rage against the world, but you don’t do that, either.   
  
You’re mouth is sewn shut, and your eyes are wide, and the snow never ends. The scene stops, replays; you watch him fall forever.   
  
Except you’re gasping awake, and he’s falling, but he’s standing beside your bed, staring down at you with wide eyes. It takes you a moment before you realize: nightmare; you’re prone to them, and you forgot to tell him. It would almost be embarrassing, except he’s right there, and you can reach out with a hand, and touch; it’s not something you can resist, don’t care that this isn’t something you’ve done before. He’s [I]here[/I], when you just saw him fall into the ice that consumed him, and you need.   
  
You aren’t sure what you need, just that it’s him.   
  
“I’m right here,” he tells you, whispers the words into the dark between you, and you swallow hard, nodding. You know, you tell him, hand shaking where your fingertips are brushing against his stomach, half way to clinging. “Stevie,” he murmurs, your name like a prayer on his breath, and you let your eyes slide closed against the tears that threaten. 

“Please,” you ask, beg, _want_ , even though you hardly know what you’re asking for. “Buck, I need,” but you don’t finish it, just look up at him until he summons up a ghost of his old wild, reckless grin, and shoves you over in the bed. He crawls in next to you, and tugs and pulls until you’re situated how he wants; it’s Bucky all around you, though you’re bigger now, than he is. The metal arm is cold against your skin, but the flesh is warm, and you can feel him pressed against you; it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt, and you heave a heavy sigh, and lean your head back against him.   
  
“I got you,” he reassures, one leg thrown over your own, and you haven’t been this close to anyone, this intimate, in a long, long time. You breathe deeply once, in and out, before settling into him. It’s familiar, and warm, here where you know he’s safe and around you; he’s always had your back. That at least, has never changed.   
  
“I know you do,” you answer, quietly, and feel his smile against your skin. You fall asleep with your fingers twined with his, touching everywhere. He stops falling, at least for a night; the snow settles, the train moves on, and the mountainside is peaceful.


End file.
